


Politically Expedient

by acorday



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Fluff, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Out of Character Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley Bashing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:20:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23149156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acorday/pseuds/acorday
Summary: Hermione Granger is Harry Potter's campaign manager. Draco Malfoy is Blaise Zabini's. Two weeks before Election Day, Malfoy reaches out with an offer.Also known as: the one in which Hermione Granger is a ruthless politician with no regrets.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 2
Kudos: 51





	Politically Expedient

Society fancied itself the kind of cultured, upscale bar for the crème de la crème to mingle over a £20 glass of whiskey. These patrons would find the extortionate price tag to be barely pocket change, and would gladly pay through the nose for the establishment’s self-vaunted discretion.

In reality Society was a booze and schmooze favourite of aspiring Tory backbenchers who wouldn’t have recognized subtlety if it bit them in the ass. Tonight, apparently, it was also the watering hole for a party of rowdy international students who’d already splashed out more cash than I suspected most people of their age saw in a year.

“Remind me why we’re here again,” I said in as measured a tone as I could manage.

If my host meant to impress me with painfully overpriced drinks – and he would certainly be paying, as one does when wooing a potential ally for political support – he would be disappointed. Over the years I had learned the value of pragmatism when it came to these things, a fact that I had equally learned to conceal, but it took more than a couple of cocktails to buy my cooperation. Especially when you were Draco Malfoy, heir to a ludicrous ancestral fortune.

The invitation to drinks had been delivered to my desk that morning in an unmarked white envelope. I still missed my old office in the Department of Mysteries, with its stately decor and shelves of deadly books (literally). I’d left my job as Head of the Department four months ago, the youngest ever, to join Harry as campaign manager in his bid to become Minister of Magic.

After all I was Hermione Granger, perennially loyal war heroine, the brains of the Golden Trio. If Harry needed me, I would be there. Once again I was working my ass off to pave the road so he could walk in the conquering hero. I greased the wheels; I whipped his ticket into line; I made things happen.

And dogging my every step was Draco Malfoy, campaign manager for Blaise Zabini. I had to admit that Zabini had made a somewhat respectable man of himself since the War fifteen years ago, rising through the ranks of the Department of International Magical Cooperation with a mostly positive reputation for someone affiliated with so many former Death Eaters.

Like the one currently sitting across from me, smirking as he flagged down the amply endowed bartender to place an order for a cocktail whose name made me roll my eyes. “Really, Malfoy?” I said. “I thought this –” I waved a hand to emphasize that I was referring to the entire ensemble. “Would have been beneath you.”

“I’ve found that Muggle London has its charms.” Malfoy still spoke in that obnoxious drawl, but there was less of an edge to his voice than the last time I’d properly spoken to him. Which was a long time ago. I’d more or less been wrapped up in my work as an Unspeakable, while he’d floated through stylish rich-kid circles with an ease afforded only to people who know that money will always cushion their falls. We moved in totally different social circles.

“For one,” he continued, “I virtually eliminate my chances of crossing paths with detractors or, I think the Muggle word is, groupies.”

“Groupies?”

He gestured to his arm. It was covered by his sleeve, but I understood. “Ah.”

“Unpleasant young people,” he agreed.

Imagine it, to have grown up in a time far enough removed from the realities of war that one could idolize the Death Eaters. Even Sacred Twenty-Eight pureblood supremacists kept it in the closet for the most part these days.

Malfoy, as I understood, was one of the better ones. He still represented everything Harry’s campaign stood against – courtesy of political messaging designed by yours truly – but at least the man himself was civil, betraying no sign of disaffection with my birth status. He’d also made it very clear in his invitation that this was a meeting of equals. Bitter rivals, when it came to eviscerating each other in the press, but we all had to keep up appearances.

I was curious to know what Malfoy’s game was. So far he was living up to his reputation as a skilled Occlumens. Obviously, he wanted something from me: why else would he make a cloak-and-dagger show of taking me out to this godforsaken Muggle bar?

Our drinks arrived. The bartender flashed my host a winning smile, leaning further over than strictly necessary. It would surprise Wizarding Britain that I could admire the female form, and had done so on several discreet occasions since my separation from Ron, but she was far too obvious for my taste. I stole a glance at Malfoy. He appeared to be preoccupied with his nails.

“Out with it, then,” I ordered, giving my drink a sip. Barring the tacky name, it was well chosen. “I was given the impression that this was a backroom deal. I don’t suppose you’ll disappoint.”

“Why, Granger. Your political instincts have improved.” Malfoy nursed a shit-eating grin that I was sure he knew accentuated his best features. Unburdened of the bigotry that had impeded his attractiveness as a schoolboy, he was a work of art. It was unfair, considering that the genetic lottery had already apportioned him wealth and reasonable intelligence.

Once I would have thrown myself against the injustice of it. It still chafed that a former Death Eater could sport a winning smile and haemorrhage galleons towards the right causes and not only would all be forgiven, but he would be awarded a seat at the grownups’ table, whereas I had to fight to get my voice heard.

I’d reflected many a time on the dysfunction of the Hogwarts house system. As a Gryffindor I’d never been taught to wheedle, to manoeuvre, to hear the things that weren’t said and understand how to take advantage of them. How naive I was, when I arrived fresh off my perfect N.E.W.Ts believing that competence and hard work would carry me high. The qualities that had elevated me in school were useless next to the ones my house was taught to disdain.

I was lucky in one regard: I was a rapid study.

I raised an eyebrow. “An uncomfortable realization for you, no doubt.”

“Trust me, I’ve long realized. I wouldn’t be here otherwise, treating you to what is decidedly a very non-Gryffindor offer. What would your friends think?”

I was a lightweight, and the drink was hitting my head in a not unpleasant way. I couldn’t resist a moment of snideness. “They don’t. I get the job done, and they don’t ask questions.”

My expression remained pleasantly vacant, but I squirmed inwardly at the foreign glint that entered his gaze. “Potter’s taking the Ministry.”

Malfoy stated the obvious. With two weeks to go, Harry was up in nearly all the polls. We had gotten off to a rocky start with a couple of gaffes, then the big scandal of the election season when Cormac McLaggen had backstabbed his longtime ally in favour of backing himself, claiming to have “reluctantly come to the conclusion” that Harry couldn’t provide the leadership needed for the troubling times ahead. Whatever that meant. McLaggen had always been a bit of a bellend, lacking in both sportsmanship and savviness. With my effective media strategy we had near as rendered him a non-factor, his renegade campaign a joke next to the Golden Trio’s.

Our only real competition was Zabini. Considering what I knew of Zabini’s capabilities, that meant our only real competition was sitting before me.

“Unless,” he raised a finger to cut off my retort, “We release this.”

Then, wonder of wonders, Draco Malfoy took out a Muggle phone and navigated to a two-minute video.

It was recorded on near-maximum zoom, but the figures on the screen were unmistakable: there was I, on the left, complete with umbrella and scarf. And there was Ron.

We were too far away to be heard, but anyone could see us shouting at each other. I remembered this row. It had been over some stupid appointment that Ron had wanted for a mate and I had refused, opting to install my loyal, competent crony over his lazy and incompetent one. We had been cold since the break-up, but Harry had refused to back down on appointing Ron as his running mate, and in any case it was politically expedient to project a show of unity. Seventh Year again, us against the world and all that tosh.

The media saw an amicable split. Harry and Ginny knew it had been painful, but not the true extent of things. Only Ron and I knew that it had gotten violent. I’d questioned myself so many times in the ensuing months – questioned my place in this world, wondered at the semblance of acceptance I’d eked out – yet for my own reasons, I’d wanted the violence kept private. A secret to take to our graves.

Perhaps it was a sign from fate that Malfoy of all people was showing me on a Muggle phone a recording of Ron slapping me across the face. Unimpeachable proof.

“I drop this right before Election Day, and Potter is done,” he mused. “His running mate, physically abusive towards his chief strategist. What other secrets is the saint hiding? What other skeletons do the beloved Gryffindors have in the closet?” He spoke with a mocking twist, finally exposing a glimpse at the Malfoy I’d known and hated from my childhood.

“You wouldn’t win.” I crossed my legs and leaned forward. Alcohol must have emboldened my calculus. “Your campaign has a stagnant voter base. Money only buys so many votes, I’m afraid, and it doesn’t help that you love to dog whistle for blood purity. Harry has united the Gryffindor, Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw demographics. In other words, the self-righteous, the idealistic and the educated. All of which would rather hold their nose and vote McLaggen than support your closet racist of a candidate.”

I hadn’t realized, while ranting, how close I’d gotten to Malfoy. We were practically nose-to-nose. Stiffening, I drew back.

“I’d give that speech an Exceeds Expectations, Granger. I’m impressed.” Malfoy finished his drink and called for another. “Of course, I’ve come to the same conclusion myself. So I’d like to offer a deal.”

My eyes drifted involuntarily to the phone that lay on the counter between us.

“It’s backed up to the Cloud, don’t you worry. My gentlemanly instincts are livid at the Weasel’s treatment of you. But I must defer to the lady and since that is you in this case, I’m sure you would have certain reservations on the release of this video, even if I’d use it as part of my defence to avoid Azkaban after I defended your honour. Must be the feminist tendencies – you think you can handle the ex yourself. You wouldn’t be wrong. But I digress.”

“Malfoy,” I said calmly. “Your offer?”

“Right. I want five seats on the Wizengamot, people of my choosing. Think of it as a sort of coalition. Your support in passing Nott’s legal reform package. I know you agree with the fundamentals. We can hash out the details. Astoria Greengrass as the new Head of the Department of Magical Transportation. The position will open up in a few months.” He ticked off items on his fingers, running through a few more requests that would be inconsequential to a sitting Minister of Magic but were no doubt payment for faithful retainers or stepping stones for future ambitions.

“And,” Malfoy finished, “I want you to go for dinner with me next week.”

“You what?”

“Have a proper meal with me. If I can make time, so can you. I can’t be as unbearable as all that.” He said it lightly, but I detected a note of tension in that request, tacked onto the end of the negotiation as it were.

Interesting.

His political requests were actually reasonable. I respected that he didn’t waste my time with frivolous demands and force us to haggle like fishwives at market. I appreciated that he treated me as a rival, not an obstacle.

“Those are your conditions, and in exchange you won’t release the video?”

“You have my word.”

I could have quipped that most people wouldn’t attach as much worth to the word of a Slytherin ex-Death Eater as the time it took to say it, but I had the strangest feeling that Draco Malfoy was telling the truth.

  


***

  


“It’s a team of imbeciles and glory seekers,” I seethed. I was into my third or fourth glass of wine. My tongue was dangerously loose. Even though I lambasted my subordinates regularly (because they deserved it), I didn’t often do it in quite so scathing terms. I figured I was safe for the time being: Malfoy was throwing just as many incriminating barbs my way.

He laughed. “You think that’s bad, Granger? You wouldn’t last a day over here. It’s a tank of sharks and bottom feeders, and it’s hard to tell which is worse.”

We were in a Michelin-starred French restaurant in Muggle London. The steak was fabulous. I’d winced at the prices on the menu, but Malfoy would pay – as one does when encouraging the continued cooperation of a political ally. That must have been part of the reason he’d invited me to dinner, after all. He had to keep an eye to ensure I was upholding my end of the bargain.

I was no ingenue; I recognised the spark of attraction between us. That in itself was nothing new – despite my bookish image, I’d used physical attraction a number of times in my career. Although I’d never gone as far as sleeping with anyone for political gain, partly because I did have some standards and partly because that could backfire explosively, I was aware that cultivating the spark was a relatively harmless way to grease the wheels.

“How’d you get this many people clinging to your coattails?” I smirked. “At least my lot are _honest_ about when they’re led by their egos.”

“A Gryffindor trait, that,” Malfoy commented. “We’re the snake ticket though.”

I nodded along. “I’m shocked and appalled by your proclivity towards manipulating people to get ahead.”

“As if you’re not cut from the same cloth.”

“What do you mean?”

“For your supposed dedication to Saint Potter, I find your motives painfully transparent. You were Head of the Department of Mysteries for seven years. Wizarding Britain’s most secretive legal operation, answerable to none but itself. Ergo, you are not trusted. An Unspeakable doesn’t make a natural politician.”

I motioned for him to continue.

“You lack the political capital to make a play for the throne yourself. But! Run a successful campaign for your best friends, and you set yourself up to springboard into the spotlight. Your credentials are impeccable, your acumen unquestionable. I suspect poor Ronald Weasley finds his atrocious behaviour ‘exposed’, probably by an anonymous source, soon after the election. Just in time for Hermione Granger to glide into the office of Senior Undersecretary to the Minister of Magic. Then when Potter retires, who better to succeed him?”

I took my time chewing through my mouthful of steak frites, washing it down with a gulp of Bordeaux before I replied. “I can’t confirm a word of what you’ve said, of course, and I will vehemently deny it if given cause. But I give credit where it’s due. You’re terribly astute.”

“I know, Hermione.” My gaze snapped up at the use of my first name. He winked, setting off pinpricks on my skin and heat in more private places.

I reminded myself that much as this was the most interesting conversation I’d had in a long time, it would be ill-advised to take someone who was still my number one competition to bed a week before Election Day.

“Maybe.” I tested the waters. “Maybe, should the time ever come that I feel ready to lead a ticket, I would like to recruit someone from the pureblood royalty to my side. Such a partnership, if you can imagine it, would be unbeatable.”

Malfoy laughed. “You’d have to look elsewhere. Why should I ever run for office myself? I’d have to deal with an absolutely despicable bureaucracy. I’d have to do actual _work_.” He shuddered.

“Very well. No Senior Undersecretary for you then. But then I didn’t say anything about office, did I?”

Slowly, we smiled at each other. I felt remarkably at ease. Here was a person who could match me at the game and revelled in doing so.

I split the last of the Bordeaux evenly between us and raised my glass. “To our...coalition.”

“Cheers to that.”

We clinked our glasses and drank. I knew we were drinking to much more.

**Author's Note:**

> I have not read nor watched Harry Potter. The entirety of my knowledge comes from fanfiction and the wiki. As such I'm aware that my characters are wildly OOC, but I enjoyed writing this immensely and hope some of you liked it too.
> 
> I see this as a one shot establishing the beginnings of a Dramione relationship and so have no plans to continue the story, but in my mind Hermione executes her plan to become Minister of Magic exactly as it's laid out here, picks up Draco's allegiance along the way and then governs very competently while of course siphoning off favours for her husband the business magnate.


End file.
